The Week That Was

Hello, my blogees. Boy, it's been a while, ain't it?

I've been limping along lately, working at work, working at home, and trying to keep things in Betland together. (No rusted rides, no poisonous concessions, etc.)

But you know, my birthday was Sunday. That would be your Sunday, Feb 26th. I was ready to celebrate and forget about things in "real life" for a while. Hell, if I have to become a bitter old crone, why not celebrate it?

It started on Friday, February 24th. Friday, yes! The weekend was coming, and I had weekend plans! And they started with leaving work Friday, picking up Paw, and heading to Lowe's to pick out my birthday present, the one I specifically asked for from Paw and Granny.

A new storm door.

Yes, how romantic, and what a fun gift. But it's exactly what I wanted, and, well, needed. I have a new storm door at the front of the Pod, but the one at the dennette door, the one I use 99% of the time, is just about shot. And realize, I have a Milo in my life, so a working storm door with a good latch and a good lock is a must.

We went and picked out my door, set it all up for installation, and I was feeling pretty good. I could hang with Stennie that night doing the podcast, then I was to head to Mr M's the next day for dinner and movie. I was happy.

I got up early Saturday morning to take Milo out, and there was a small dusting of snow on the grass. "A mere trifle," I said, and brought Milo back in and lazed around in the Comfy Chair.

A couple of hours later, the phone rang. It was Paw. "Have you not left?" he asked. I said, well, no, and he asked me to look out the window. It was snowing like a mother.

"Oh, shit! Why does God hate me so?" I exclaimed, and of course my dad chastised me for that, but I got him off the phone and started running around, pulling on clothes and stuffing things in the overnight bag, without benefit of shower or anything else except a toothbrushing.

I hit the road, and the bad snow ended pretty quickly, though it did snow on me almost the whole way to B'burg. The wind, though. My Lord, the wind was blowing me this way and that, and I was fighting to keep the car on the road.

But I made it there, and then things were OK. (Well, except for a couple of skirmishes between Mr M and me.) We had a great dinner out with The DeepFatFriar, then went to see our movie. The next morning, I got to laze around and Mr M made me pecan waffles. I so didn't want to go home.

But home it was, because it was a Paw Duty weekend. And you know, it was OK. Me and Paw giggled and joked our way through the whole grocery, then I got home to prepare for the "fun stuff."

See, the Oscars were on Sunday, my birthday (thank you Oscar People), and we have a little TheCompanyIWorkFor codicil that says we get our birthdays off. Since mine was on a Sunday, I announced I wouldn't be at work Monday.

So I was excited to watch the Oscars, stay up late, play Stennie's Oscar Drinking Game, and not have to worry about going to work the next day.

So I got everything in place, hit the internet, watched the Oscars by myself on TV, and with my friends online, and had a blast. When it was done, I went to bed and prepared to snooze while my TV was on, tuned to all the after-parties.

That didn't go so well.

I climbed into bed and turned on the TeeVee, and it was all funny. The picture had lines, and buzzes and pops through the speakers, and I couldn't tell who anyone was. I muttered, "Stupid cable," turned over and fell asleep.

I slept in Monday. Yes, I slept in an astounding 15 minutes. Then Milo barked and I got up and leashed him and went out. When we did, there was a line of traffic in front of my house. Because the trash truck was running, at the building one house south of me.

I had missed Trash Duty Monday by one house.

I called Paw and told him I was bringing a bag of trash to his house. And here, folks, is how old people are. He hemmed and hawed, and basically said he didn't want it. Apparently he has three trash cans, and one more bag of trash there would totally set the earth off its axis, because it might not fit in the cans. I told him I was bringing it anyway, and I did.

Also on Monday, the guy from Lowe's called me and said he'd be there Tuesday to install my new door. Wooooo!

However, Monday contained something else. While the cable in my bedroom was still lining and popping and cracking, I found out the two other TVs in my house got cable just fine. Oh, crap. Not the cable. My 9-year old TV in the bedroom had gone, I said to myself, and schlepped out to the Wally World (Wal-Mart) to get a new one. (I can't be without TV in the bedroom.)

$278 and a lot of lifting later, the nice new TV was in my house. Then my cousin Jacob came down, loved on Milo, we hung out, then went out to dinner. It was great.

When we got back from dinner, she was kind enough to come in and help me put the new TV up. It went fairly smoothly, and we got everything in place. We hooked it up and turned it on. It did the same damn thing the old one did. Pops and cracks and lines. "Hey, I spent $278 for nothing!" I exclaimed.

I knew a call to the Comcast Bastards was in my future.

However, the next day was Tuesday, Storm Door Day! I came home for lunch, and the Lowe's guy arrived shortly after. Milo was a nutcase and whined and ran around everywhere, and I apologized, but he said that was fine.

He took off the old door, I watched him through the side window of the Pod, then I heard, "Ms B? Ms B?" I walked to the opening of the dennette and leaned over the gate (which I couldn't open because Milo was Mr Batshit Crazy), and said, "Yes?"

Then Mr Installer informed me that I seem to have a "non-standard-sized' door. Width can vary, he said, but height is standard. 81 inches. My opening was 82 inches.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Not only was my house built in the 50's, and all fixtures I've had to replace don't match with ones made today, but the dennette was an addition to the house, and apparently whoever addended it didn't care about door size.

I had two choices, I was told. Get a special ordered door at 82 inches for $200 more than we'd already paid, or have Mr Installer work on the door facing and build it down and inch. Which sounded complicated, but I found out today that would cost about $70. Guess which one I chose.

Now, the cable box.

Since a new ($278) TeeVee didn't solve my problem on Monday, I decided while Mr Installer was there I'd take the bedroom cable box and schlep (I seem to be schlepping a lot) it to the living room to hook it up there. By the way, I hate this kind of stuff. I hate playing with hook-ups and wires and connections like the plague. But I did it.

I hooked that box into the living room TV, and it played just fine. And that lead me to what we call The Worst Case Scenario.

That the problem wasn't a TeeVee or cable box, but the cable coming into the bedroom. Which is, might I add, coming into the bedroom behind my (very) full and heavy chest of drawers. (Or Chester Drawers, if you live here.)

I took the box back and hooked it up in the bedroom, and well, it's been spotty. It was working for a while right after the TV started, then went wonky. Last night? It worked perfectly all night long.

The Comcast folk are coming tomorrow morning. I need to move approximately 15,000 things in my bedroom away from that chest to give the guy the best chance he has to get at the cable. AND - if the box is still working perfectly, what do I say?

"That box is a liar! It's bad!" Umm, because that's what Comcast taught it, right?

I don't know.

All I know is that tomorrow is Friday. I like Fridays.

Betland's Olympic Update:
- Never do these anymore, but yesterday we got the news that Davy Jones of the Monkees died. So sad. I feel like another huge chunk of my youth is gone.

Ow! My Back! (pt. 1)

Hello, my long-lost blogees.

Yes, I know, I've been away a long time. I'd like to say that's because I've been off doing really exciting things, but, well, you know me. That's not the case. I've just been living my normal life.

And speaking of my normal life - hey! How about my back?

I've often talked about my back being "out," throwing out my back when lifting and slinging and doing hard tasks around the Poderosa, the things one has to do because only one lives at the Poderosa.

But then.... There's that other thing I've mentioned.

I don't know if you yourself have heard me mention it, but I have, many times. Between work and doing Paw Duty and working every day and living a life at a house where's there's only one gal to do all the stuff. "I'm just a mule, and one day this mule's back is gonna break."

And well, it did.

Over a week ago I found myself down in my back. And I'll be honest right here in the old blog, I have NO IDEA how it happened. I got up on a Tuesday. I got ready for work and got ready to leave, and I took Milo out for his pee and poo and got dressed and everything was as usual.

Then when it was time to go to work, my windshield was frozen over from the cold, and I had to scrape it, but then, I've scraped windshields for over 10 years, right?

I came into work, sat down, took a phone call, then went to the bathroom. And when I came back to start the rest of the day, my back was out. It hurt. I had no idea why. I was OK during the ice scraping, during the bathroom break - it was a mystery. But my back hurt, and that was it.

I endured it that entire week, babied it and tried to get it better, but to no avail. Then came the weekend. The weekend I had Paw Duty.

That was the Saturday after the initial Tuesday of my back going out. I didn't particularly want to do Paw Duty, but it was my weekend, so that was that.

There was a point, right there in the grocery with Paw, where I started to cry from the pain. I put my shirt up to my eyes to catch the tears. It was not a pretty sight. But still, there were cans and bottles to be lifted into the cart, and I did that, because I'm a dutiful daughter (mule), and that's what one does.

When we got the groceries back to Paw's house, he saw my shape and said, as he has in the past, to be honest, "Now, I'm carrying these bags into the house, you don't lift anything." And for the first time ever, I took him up on his offer.

I let him carry the bags into his house, then I went home. And I hurt. I kept thinking, "If there's just one place I could find a little peace...." and so I made that Fatal Mistake.

I went to bed.

I slept in my bed for over two hours. Which was nice, to be sure, but then I woke up and had to get out of bed.

And I couldn't.

My back had completely seized up. The muscles were gone, and all I could do, once I finally lifted myself from the bed, was to lumber around my house, screaming and crying.

Yeah. Screaming and crying. Remember that.

During all that screaming and crying, I wasn't sure what to do. I kept thinking of dialing 911, but you know, I have Milo, and I couldn't leave him in an empty house while I went off to the hospital.

So I called the parents.

I told them that if i could get in my car and drive the 2 miles to their house, I was coming, so at least Milo would have a place to stay if I had to confine myself. I threw Milo into the car, and screamed my way to their house.

And still....

It's hard to explain. In my town, the local hospital is an armpit. No one wants to go there, including myself. I tried to come up with any way possible not to end up in their ER.

I walked, I sat, I bended this way and that. I did everything I could think of doing. Three hours later, I finally decided that if I felt this way now, tomorrow and the next day couldn't be much better. I finally gave my dad the go-ahead to call 911.

And so they came.

Yep. So I screamed my way in an ambulance to the local ER, every bump and curve being a new reason for me to scream my lungs out.

I arrived at the ER and got evaluated. Yeah. I was a bit worried that I was one of the Saturday Night Crowd who wanted drugs (that's a natural around here), but they still went and looked me over, and did an X-Ray, and blood and urine tests.

Turns out I had no infections, and my X-Rays of the bones showed nothing amiss. They told me to follow up with my regular Dr, Dr Smokin' Javier, and that maybe an MRI was in order.

Yeah, OK. Total ER visit not paid by insurance, and now an MRI? I knew this routine.

They said they'd give me a shot to help the pain, one that would last for about two days. It didn't even last two hours. I was able to ambulate for a moment, then when they pronounced me ready to go, I was still unable to walk, screaming and crying (remember?) and leaning over various pieces of furniture to exist.

My dad (who had ridden in the ambulance with me) and I were kicked out of the ER. We had way no home, no one to call to get us home, but it didn't matter. We were duly released, and so we had to leave. It was 4:15 am.

The only person we knew to call was the bro-in-law's dad. He's a wonderful man who has spent his retirement taking care of lost souls. Oh, Lord, were we lost souls. He came and got us, and I professed such embarrassment that it it was, well, embarrassing.

I got two prescriptions to take home with me. One was a muscle relaxer, one was a pain pill. They gave me an extra pain pill there at the ER, and I took when I got home around 5 am. I slept a little bit, which was blissful, but let's be honest, I was wrecked and that was only a spot-relief.

But any relief was welcome as I slept a bit on Sunday, and went to work on Monday, cause that's how I roll, of course, but I was in just as much in pain.

I needed help!

So I followed up with Smokin' Dr Javier on Tuesday to see if that (non-paid, remember my health insurance) MRI was needed.

Stay tuned - what happened? Did I get better? Did I have to pay for an MRI I can't afford?

It's worth another check back, I promise!

Stewquation

For some reason, I know not why, I got all domestic and decided to make a big pot of beef stew.

Now, I'm normally not that high on beef stew. The reason for this is the beef. I always find it rather tough, no matter what kind I buy. I also always find there are too many potatoes in beef stew. I mean, big ol' hunks of potato in every spoonful.

But I was loafing at work on Tuesday. It was an honest loaf. I was caught up on all my stuff, and for some reason we were extremely slow, so I hit the internet and started reading the news. And there at the bottom of the msnbc.com homepage was a little picture. Underneath, the link said, "Coffee + Beer = Beef Stew."

And I'm sorry, but that's just a link I have to follow.

It was a video link, of a segment from my old daily nemesis "The Today Show." Some Dude and Al Roker were in the little fake kitchen there, and Some Dude was going to show Al how to make a beef stew that would knock his socks off.

And here's what he did. He browned up some beef in a big pot. He then threw in, and I mean threw in, and encouraged Al to do some throwing too, but he threw in some chopped red onions (which I like so much more than whites, and infinitely more than yellows). Then Some Dude showed Al how to cut carrots so that each one is the exact same size and they don't get bigger as you go up the carrot's widening face. I liked that, too. Then he and Al threw the carrots into the pot.

The celery was just plain old celery, but Some Dude threw it in with gusto. He then threw in some garlic, and let it all cook and carmelize.

Now this next part made me quite the fan of Some Dude. After the beef and vegetables were nice and carmelized, he said they had to reintroduce the flavor from where the beef bits had stuck to the bottom of the pot. And to do that, well, he just had to use a half a cup of whiskey.

Once the reintroduction had taken place, and really, what reintroduction isn't better with a little whiskey, then the stalwart stew staple potatoes were thrown in, and it was liquid time. Some beef stock, a half a cup of stale coffee, and two pints of Guinness Stout. Neither Some Dude nor Al threw the liquid, and I'm glad about that, although it would have been fun to watch all that beer fizz like crazy. Some rosemary and thyme sprigs were thrown in (but no parsley and sage), and there was a stew right there in the fake kitchen.

And that was it. Video watched. But since the weather's turned cold I've been wanting to make a few soups and chilis I can eat now and freeze for later, and I just decided I'd make this stew with the whiskey and beer and even coffee to sober me up the next day.

I went to the grocery Tuesday after work. It was looking like rain. I forewent the umbrella anyway. I bought a few groceries I needed, then all the ingredients for the stew, save for the whiskey, but I had enough left over from the weekend to keep me out of the liquor store. I came out with my newly-bought groceries in bags in the cart, and walked right into - a hurricane.

Well, I'm calling it a hurricane. The rain was pouring, the wind was blowing. Blowing the rain into my face and on my glasses. Rain had collected in the parking lot till it lapped over my shoes. I did some throwing of my own before the stew even started, throwing bags as fast as I could into the back of podmobile2. When I was through, I looked like I had stood in the shower for twenty minutes with my clothes on.

I climbed into the car and drove home, water dripping from my hair into my face the whole way. I backed into the driveway, unloaded the bags, took Milo out - hey, why shouldn't he get wet too? - and came in to unload my groceries. All the bags had about an inch of rain in them. It was a wet sort of time.

But anyway, after a change of clothes, I got right into putting, no, wait, throwing my stew together. Did it just like Some Dude did it, throwing with gusto. And I have to say, that carrot trick is awesome. I want to have carrots with every meal now just so I can cut my carrot pieces all the same size.

I'd thrown in the first veggies over the browned beef, it carmelized, and I added my too-expensive-for-this-dish whiskey. Then I added the dreaded potatoes, stale coffee, beef stock, and the two pints of Guinness Stout. Boy, was that Guinness stout. A big ol' thick foam engulfed all the other ingredients. In fact, after tying my rosemary and thyme (but not parsley and sage) in a little string, I threw them in. The beer foam was so thick I had to sink the poor little spices with my stirrer.

I took it to simmer and let it go. I made something else for dinner because I wanted to let this take its time and stew into a stew I could be proud of.

At the end of the night, I got out a large tupperware container and looked at my stew. Then I got out another large container. I had enough stew to feed the whole town. I began ladling it, dividing ingredients between the two containers. And as I did that, I started to notice something. This wasn't really a beef stew. It was a beef soup.

It had no thickness to it at all. It was basically all those things I'd so happily thrown at the pot, floating in broth and beer. I was disappointed, to say the least. I mentioned it to Mr M, and he said I needed to add some corn starch. And he was right. Some Dude hadn't said anything about a thickening agent.

Had I missed something? I ran back to my recipe and pored over the ingredients. Nope, nothing there. Sure, there was some thickness when all that Guinness foam was floating around, just like there was in the video, but when it fizzled out, I was left with a limp stew.

I of course talked to my friend, workmate, and mother figure San the next morning, Wednesday, and she agreed with Mr M. I went home for lunch and heated some of this stuff up, and, well, it just wasn't what I was hoping for. I took the second container of the limp stew back to work and gave it to San. "Here, do anything you want to it, and tell me if you get anything better than it is now. I'll do the same with my share."

After work it was to the grocery once again for corn starch. When I got it boiling, I added some broth to the corn starch and put it in the soup. And I was starting to get some stew! I had stew, people! Near the end of cooking I threw in, at this point I couldn't just lay anything in there, a bit of cilantro. Then when I'd ladled it into my bowl I thought "what the hell," and sprinkled some Frank's hot sauce over the top. (Everything is improved by Frank's hot sauce.)

And it looked like this.





















And it wasn't awful. The beef was more tender than I was expecting, maybe the Guinness pummeled it into submission, there were still too many potatoes, the thicker sauce was nice and comfortable. But it wasn't that great. I looked down at my feet, and my socks were definitely not being knocked off.

I'm blaming the Guinness. I can drink it if I have to, but it's definitely not my beer of choice. I started thinking about nut brown ale. Wonder if that would give it a warmer, cozier taste.

No matter. I don't know that I'll try that recipe again. I have others in the bullpen I'm more interested in getting at. All I know is that the equation that got me interested in the first place is wrong. It's not "Coffee + Beer = Beef Stew."

I'm leaning more toward "Coffee + Beer + Regular Beef Stew = A Nice Night In."

Kielbasa stew is up next. And I have plenty of corn starch just in case.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And the meal I made Tuesday night while the stew cooked? Well, folks, I made the best Reuben Sandwich I've ever made in my life. I can't wait to make it again. As soon as I go to the grocery again for more rye bread.

There You Are!

My mom once uttered a line I swore I'd never myself say.

She'd had several bad happenings all in the span of a couple of weeks, culminating in her falling in the yard and breaking her leg. When she got home from the hospital she said, "I don't know else can happen to me."

That night, our house caught on fire.

It was a small electrical outlet fire, buzzed itself out before the 16 town fire trucks got there, and there was minimal damage, but, well, you know.

I've been having my share of bad luck lately. I sometimes feel like a black cloud is following me around. I'm getting through it, but it's not all roses and butterflies over here in Betland.

In fact, as mentioned in the blog below, my Nervous Breakdown hadn't even made his annual Oktoberfest appearance. I was managing on my two bad knees, trying not to think about the $600 difference in my bank-vs-check register (not in my favor), and I've been limping along, literally and figuratively, fairly well, thanks.

Until last night.

I'd made up my mind to do a little Milo Maintenance this week. The Dear Nephew, Señor Taylor, is happily ensconced at school, so groomings are few and far between. Milo's been getting a tad wooly, and smelling like a dog (gasp!), so I thought this week I'd bathe him, then try my hand at a mini-clipping to keep him tidy and also keep his next Señor Taylor grooming from lasting some two hours and wearing us all out. (Milo included.)

So last night was bath night. Now, here's how I bathe Milo, and if you don't like this, I'm sorry. I read where many people do this, and it sure works for us. I take Milo into the shower with me. Get him nice and wet, lather him up, let the spray rinse him off, throw him out the shower door, then clean my own dirty self up, and wash down the shower stall, all in one fell swoop. It beats doing the seven basic ballet positions over the tub trying to scrub him, then never feeling like he's got all the soap out while I rinse him over and over with water from a cup.

So last night I got the water running and grabbed Milo. By the way, Milo is not overly fond of this bathing method, but at least it's quick, and in short order he was wetted, lathered, and rinsed, and I threw him out the shower door where he could run like crazy and bark at me like, "What are you doing to me?!"

Job one done. Then I washed my own dirty self, job two done. I grabbed a few Clorox bleach wipes and cleaned up the shower, and it was all finished in record time.

"That went really well!" I said to myself as I was turning off the water and drying off in the shower. I then opened the shower door, stepped out...

...and promptly slipped on the bathroom floor.

It was something else, my fine feathereds. It happened very quickly, so much so that it was a shock to the system. Once I had landed in the floor, I realized just how I'd landed.

My bad knee, well, worse knee, hit the bathroom floor. Below the knee, my leg turned to the left and my ankle was against the outside of the tub. My bad-but-not-as-bad knee hit the tub floor, with the below-knee on that leg also twisted left, ankle against the far side of the tub. I was straddling the tub, or more to the point, I was impaled upon the shower door rudder on the tub. It looked a little bit like this.



















And it hurt. It hurt, but I was silent. Until I realized I couldn't get up. But! Above me was the towel rack. I reached up for it to pull myself into a standing position - and it promptly dislodged itself from the wall and I fell back down into the same position.

And all of a sudden, there he was. My Nervous Breakdown. The little tornado with red puffed-up cheeks, in his diaper, and I began to scream.

It wasn't a shriek, like I was being stabbed. It was a throaty sort of scream. It went on for about nine minutes. And while it did, the Nervous Breakdown spun around the tiny bathroom, pointing at me as if to say, "Bazinga! I got her naked this time!"

I honestly have no idea how I got up. Something about pressing against the shower door rudder where I was impaled, and realizing that I was alone, so I had to get up somehow. I guess. The screaming went on even after I was up, and it turned into tears, mainly because I was now envisioning spending every trip hence to the grocery in one of those little motorized carts.

Soon enough I realized that I could in fact stand up, and the screaming died down, and my Nervous Breakdown whirled away, grinning. I walked out of the bathroom and looked into the living room, where I saw Milo lying, still wet, on the couch, looking at me like, "Having a little trouble there? Too bad, I had to go in the shower, my work is done for the night."

And so, Nervous Breakdown had, I got dressed and went on with my night. However, I will never again laugh at those "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials, and I refused to say, "I don't know what else can happen to me."

And I went out today and bought a bunch of non-stick crap to senior citizen-proof my bathroom.

Oh, and speaking of today, my knees are relatively OK, but every single fucking other part of my body hurts.

And my Nervous Breakdown has been here and gone. So now I can get on with the business of living.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* AND - tonight I still gave Milo his mini-clip. It's no Taylor job, that's for sure, but he looks passable and is minus enough hair to keep things easy when he gets his real grooming. It sure was a bitch to get up out of the floor, though.

Learning to Like It

Hello, blogees. It's been a while.

I'm taking a much-needed vacation this week. It all started with a trip to the big air show in Cleveland this past weekend. Well, actually it began on the Friday before when I had to drop Milo off at the boarding place. Boo hoo.

The trip to Cleveland was quick, but still fun. We did in fact go to the big air show, and it was fine, lots of flying aces and derring-do. We saw the Blue Angels, who were excellent, even though I actually liked last year's headliners, the Thunderbirds, better.

The disappointing part of the trip, well, besides having to leave so quickly, was that on our arrival, Mr M was going to take me to Sokolowski's, a local diner with great ethnic food and the added plus of being where Anthony Bourdain took Harvey Pekar when "No Reservations" went to Cleveland. We got there, and it was closed for the Labor Day weekend.

Anyway, there will be a picture of the closed Sokolowski's, and a few others, later this week. I didn't take a lot of pictures on the trip, so don't get all excited, and I can't upload them tonight.

And the reason I can't upload them tonight is because I'm not at the Poderosa. And it's kind of the reason for tonight's blog. I'm doing my first-ever remote blog via netbook. Betland has picked up and moved, for this blog, one state to the south.

It's a bit of a story, me and my netbook. I don't think I've ever mentioned it here.

See, it all started when I came into a bit of a windfall around Christmas. I'd decided that I would bank most of it, but keep enough out to get myself something special. Something I wouldn't normally buy for myself. I was thinking laptop or netbook. And after realizing what I'd be wanting out of the machine, a kind of secondary computer, something to take on the road to Mr M's and surf the net, I realized that the netbook would be the way to go. So I ordered one.

And when it came I was very excited. I immediately named him Neddy Booke, opened him up, and looked around a bit. They keyboard was small, the screen was small, well, Neddy was a small guy all over. I despised the touch pad method of navigation. Of course not much was loaded into Neddy, so I basically just played a game of Freecell and called it a night. And it stayed that way for a while.

I soon got the networking system I needed to be able to access internet in other parts of the house, like from the Comfy Chair. I downloaded the chat program the Poundsqueeze gang chats on, but I never once joined chat from the netbook. Mostly because of the small keyboard and screen, and the fact that, to me, Neddy always seemed a bit slow in the performance department. A lot of url links fly around during chat, and I just imagined myself being mired down in them, all the while hitting the backspace key over and over again from all the mistakes I'd be making on the tiny keys.

Oh, sure, I've lugged Neddy to Mr M's every trip, and I spend a half hour or so on Facebook, and every once in a while I'll open it up in front of the TV and Mr M and I will chat a bit. But I just don't use it like I thought I would. Certainly not like other netbook users seem to be working theirs.

And so finally I came out to the world. I was just not that happy with having a netbook, and wished I'd have gotten a full-fledged laptop instead.

A couple of weeks ago an opportunity presented itself to me to buy a used laptop at a very good price. I was seriously considering it. Still am, to be honest.

Then I stopped and took stock. I'm not really in a position lately to be throwing money around, even the very good price I was offered.

And it wasn't really fair of me to chuck Neddy overboard when I really hadn't made a concerted effort to like him. It was the electronic equivalent of dismissing a possible friend with a wave of the hand because he has crooked teeth. So I tried a few things.

The first was to install Firefox. I hate Internet Explorer, and why I didn't install Firefox the very first day Neddy arrived, I have no idea. Surfing around in Firefox is a great improvement.

The next thing, I got a wireless mouse and put that damn touch pad to bed. And that really helped, even though as I type this, sitting on a hotel bed in North Carolina, said mouse keeps moving and rolling all over the place and I can't catch it.

Then I downloaded an email program. It always pissed me off that Neddy didn't come with one already included, but why I didn't install one till now, I have no idea. I guess I forewent lighting a candle so I could curse the darkness. I'm not sure it's the best program in the world, but I have gotten emails on it, and can send an email without having to go to my provider's website.

And the other stuff, the smallness of the keyboard and screen, not much I can do about that. The only thing that'll get me used to that is more usage, which is precisely what I'm trying to do right now. Remote blogging from Neddy, which is one of the advantages I'd imagined of this thing at the very beginning.

So I'm trying. We'll see how it goes. Maybe once I've loaded a few more things in, like Text Twist, Neddy and I will become even closer friends. But we're working on a relationship.

Happy Anniversary, Baby

I'm gearing up for the first of the two big weekends of my summer. This weekend it's - well, it's no Hackensaw Boys on Friday. I nixed that because logistically it made my brain hurt. I couldn't work out driving there and back, finding Milo accommodations, then still being halfway fresh on Saturday.

I have to be halfway fresh on Saturday because I have to be in R'noke at 1pm, and it's over 2 hours away. My clarinet buddy Mary and I are heading that way to meet with the lovely and extremely talented Cara. Cara plays piano.

Now, if I may slightly (or seriously) digress here, I don't think I've told you about the recital this weekend. My buddy Mr M came up with a wild idea some time ago. And it's a great idea, though I told him it wouldn't work. And so he's set out to prove me wrong, and gone ahead and organized this recital. It's called "Two to Nine," and features clarinets in ensembles of two, three, four, five, all the way up to nine players. The big finale will be a beautiful but complicated piece called "Monochrome III" by Peter Schickele, who some of you may know as PDQ Bach. Schickele also composes as himself, and as I like to say, for a man who made his fame and fortune writing comedy music, the really funny stuff he writes is the "serious" stuff he does as himself. Only the jokes are on the players of the music, not the audience. He just writes some really weird stuff, but I love it, and this piece is no exception.

Speaking of logistics, which I was above (no Hackensaws), the logistics of getting a recital of nine clarinets together is difficult, nay, I say impossible. We've yet to have a rehearsal with all nine players. A couple of them won't be in town until Sunday, the day of the recital. One of them was the principal clarinetist with the Richmond Symphony, so I'm not so worried about him, but.... But, well, he's going to be the concertmaster of the nine-player piece, so none of has practiced with him. The afternoon of the recital, we'll all head to that one golden rehearsal, try to figure out what the hell we're doing, and let the good times roll.

Anyway, let's get back to me being halfway fresh. As part of the "two" in the "Two to Nine" recital, Mary and I are going to recreate our duet from the Community Band's spring concert, only with a pianist. A pianist we've yet to meet with, until we find the lovely and extremely talented Cara on Saturday for one practice session. Then, well, as I said, let the good times roll.

(An aside here - we've been doing rehearsals for this thing for about 6 weeks or more, that's two trips to B'burg a week, folks, and Mary and I have been through pianist hell. In fact, the lovely and extremely talented Cara was a lifesaver to step in when she did. She fit us into an incredibly busy schedule.)

So. If I live through this weekend, and the jury's still out, I have two things I must do. The first is to go ahead and admit to Mr M that his brilliant but harebrained idea did in fact work, and that I was horribly wrong. And the second is to prepare myself for the next weekend.

The weekend after this one the Sauerkraut Band is going to play that hippie festival of music, happiness, and love, Floydfest. We've wanted to do this for years, and they've wanted us for some of those years, and it's finally going to happen this year.

Thing is, having never been there, I have no idea what to expect. I do know this - it's going to be hella hot and I'm going to be wearing a dirndl. And our entrance doesn't include parking, so I'll be schlepping all my SKB gear around on a shuttle bus. And the devil himself did the scheduling, because Saturday the Sauerkrauts are playing at the same damn fuckin' time as the Hackensaw Boys!

But no matter. I'm going to go with nothing more than a good time in mind. Then the next day, thanks to my Sauerkraut Band buddy Susan, I'll have a free pass for Sunday as well. Where our band is not playing and the Hackensaws are. So I'll get my 'Boys fix then.

Then I'm going to collapse for a while.

The Sunday of the recital, the 18th, is my dad's 80th birthday. As you may remember, our family has a long-standing tradition of not celebrating peoples' birthdays on their actual birthday, which is really good this time round.

And the Saturday before that, the 17th for those of you keeping score at home, is my mom and dad's anniversary. They will have been married 55 years, just count them, I know you won't. 55 years of complete wedded bliss and devotion, which is certainly mind-blowing in this day and age.

But it's another anniversary as well. It just happens to be the first anniversary of me and Milo.

Yep, it was July 17th of last year when I picked the little fella up at the shelter and brought him to his new home. I was so damn nervous. I was elated I'd found the dog for me, but I was nervous too. I hadn't had a puppy in a long time. Hell, I hadn't had a dog in some 15 years, and The Petster was about 12 when she died. That's a lot of time removed from puppydom.

Here's what I remember from that first day. Milo peed on me with anxiety when he was handed over to me at the pound. He had horribly unhealthy fur and a gnarled-up tail. I gave him a bath. He stole a piece of pizza off my plate and ran away with it. He cried for about 15 minutes when I went to bed, then was as quiet as a lamb.

By Sunday, he was already going to the door when he wanted out. In the next week, he was fetching.

And in the year that followed he got haircuts and combings and lots of love, and soon developed a beautiful coat and tail. He graduated from the Hi D Ho School for Dogs, probably by his cuteness more than any great obedience ability, but he still has that diploma. He's made people friends and doggie friends, and every mile I've logged to B'burg and back in the last year, he's been right beside me logging them too. He likes to watch TV with me, he's chewed his way through a hundred dog toys - but nary a shoe or piece of furniture. He's swallowed two footies and subsequently thrown them up, and I once had to pull a paper towel he'd eaten out of his ass.

We've been on many walks, though not nearly enough, we've cuddled in the chair nightly, and he's (reluctantly) let me take his picture in bandanas, hats, and a Snuggie. He's starred in a Comfy Chair movie.

And in what may be his biggest coup, after about six months, he totally won over my dad, who immediately disliked Milo because he was so against the idea of my having another dog. Now when I go over to visit, all Paw wants is to sit and pet Milo.

I've had a smarter dog, and a purely sweeter dog, but I've never had a happier, more adaptable dog. Milo has the perfect disposition.

Oh, he's stubborn. And I'm stubborn, and sometimes we lock horns. But we always make up within minutes.

He's such a great dog I often think he should have ended up with someone else. I often tell him that, while I'm ignoring him making a movie or running around late for work. "Milo, how did I ever get so lucky to find you? You are such a good dog you deserve a better person than me."

But there's a part of me that doesn't believe that for a minute. Someone else might have given him a bigger place to run, and more expensive dog toys, but no one could love him more. No one else would have composed The Milo Song to sing to him when he's anxious.

No, Milo and I are a match. If only we could make it 55 years.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And now, it's time to take Milo out.

Movie Time!

Hello, bloggees. Just popping in to tell you that I spent all of this week working on a new Comfy Chair movie.

The details, and the movie, are at The Comfy Chair Cinema. Go watch it, it was a labor of love (hi, Marla!) and a daunting task as well.

Hope you like it!

Boy, Am I Lucky or What!

You know, I love mail. I get the mail at work, around 10:00 am, and it's always exciting when my friend, workmate, and mother figure San comes in with the daily take. Will she head back my way? She is! She is! What will I have? A package? A letter? A new Games magazine?

Ah, crap. Bills.

Well, that's how it goes most days. But every once in a while, I'll get that gem I'm hoping for. That happened one day last week.

When San headed back my way, she was carrying something quite large. It wasn't a box, it was a flat piece of mail, but it was bigger than your standard legal pad. I bounced up and down in my chair and resisted the urge to say, "Gimme gimme gimme!"

When San laid the mail upon my desk, I couldn't believe my eyes.

It was the Mona Lisa!

Someone had sent me the Mona Lisa in the mail! And if you don't believe me, well, naysayers, take a look at this!

























Yep, there she is, mysterious smile and all. And look - you can even see (and feel, if you own it, like I now do) the canvas.

Apparently some art society wants me join up with them, and they must want it really badly, because as an incentive for my membership they sent me the Mona Lisa. I wish they'd have sent the frame as well, but I guess that would have cost too much to ship. I'm thinking about searching out the fanciest frame I can find, and placing right on my living room wall.

I know it's the real Mona Lisa, because it has all these facts on the back, like when it was painted and what a neato guy DaVinci was.

This past Thursday The Nephew came over to trim Milo. When it was all over I told him I could either pay him in cash or in priceless art. I showed him the Mona Lisa.

He took the cash.

Some people just don't appreciate the finer things in life.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what is the title of your autobiography?
- Runner-Up goes to Capt A, with his "Luck Has Not a Chance."
- And this week's winner goes to LilyG, with her "Lace, Hairnets, Nylon - a Chronicle." Hey, I'd read that.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

Poderosa News and Notes

Hello, friends.

OK, the week here at the Poderosa....

Went to B'burg over the weekend, where Mr M and I got a lovely visit from Sauerkraut Band buddies Seth and Susan. We had a great time, laughed a lot, then they had to leave, because Susan had to make a pie. (Father's Day, you know.)

Then Mr M and I went to a late-night showing of "Toy Story 3." Oh, man. Go see this movie. I laughed, I cried. I cried a lot. I don't know why I didn't think to bring tissues. I needed tissues.

Then I came home on Sunday, which was indeed Father's Day, and our whole family went out to dinner. We had a blast, made each other laugh, lots of good conversation, we came back home - and, just like after my birthday dinner, there was a point where Granny (my mom) plopped her wig on the table, and we knew the evening was over and it was time to go home. And so we did.

A good weekend.

Milo's Freedom Train is still going well. I only crate him at night now. When I'm at work, or have to leave the house for a while, I just close the gate into the dennette, and he has the rest of the house to himself. He's had a couple of "tear ups," like a discarded soap box and a fingernail file, but it's nothing big. He's growing up.

I haven't posted a picture lately, so here is Milo this very night, relaxing in the kitchen.























He's getting a trim from The Nephew tomorrow night. Woo Hoo! Get out the Swiffer Sweeper!

Now, this is big. I mean, big big.

You know, I like QuickDraw McGraw. He's lived with me for a few years now, and although he's pretty quiet as cartoon characters go, he's nice, easygoing, personable, and we all get along with him. Well, little did I know the pull he has in the cartoon world. He sprang a surprise on me Sunday night I was just not prepared for.

When I got back from having dinner with the family (after Granny plopped her wig on the table), I walked into the house, and guess who was there?

Woody!

Yes, QuckDraw had heard me say many times what a fan I was of Woody's, and had gotten in touch with him to invite him for a visit. Everyone was just crazy about him, including me. He's a hoot. And although space is at a premium here, and I keep saying there will be no more boarders at the Poderosa, I couldn't help but ask him to move in with us.

Woody wasn't sure. He has a whole group of characters of his own, of course. But after spending a few days here, and hearing the others talk about all the trips they take to visit friends and family whenever they like, Woody said, sure, he'd set up camp at the Poderosa for a while.

So Woody's a new member of the gang!

Here he is with his cowboy buddy, QuickDraw.
























And here he is with the whole gang, having a little ride on Che Guellama.






















If you'll look closely, you'll notice that there in the corner of that picture you'll see Baby Huckie. Remember when Huckie went to visit Maw Hound on Mother's Day in the WABAC and things went awry and Huckie ended up an infant? Well, Mr Peabody fixed the WABAC and got Huckleberry back to his old grown self, and we were all relieved.

Then, one day, we got up and there was Baby Huckie crawling around in the floor. It totally freaked Real Huckie out.

Now, we don't know how this happened, not even Mr Peabody, and we're not sure how to send him back in time to his chosen space. And until we do, Baby Huckie is here. We try to make sure he's fed and changed and burped, and Real Huckie is trying to come to grips with the fact that there's a baby version of him crawling around the Poderosa. Real Huckie's pretty adaptable, as most blue dogs are.

Boy, the fun never ends here at the Poderosa, does it?

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Had a movie idea rolling around, hoping to have the time to work on it, and now have another one rolling around! Could there be two movies in your future? I know not!

Open Door Policy

Boy, things sure do go wild at the Poderosa sometimes.

As you all know, I have a large cast of cartoon characters, monsters, a good luck baby, and llamas that live with me here at the Pod. It's enough, believe me.

But just because they live under my roof, that doesn't mean I can deny them their basic cartoon rights. Like the right to have visitors.

It's been a wild few days here. First of all, Friday night tag included no less a person himself than Yosemite Sam. Now, Yosemite has taken up residence with Mr M at Poderosa East, and they're a good match. They get along well together, they're both crusty, crabby bachelors, and I'm sure they stay out of each others' way and all.

Well, Sherman's been trying to get Yosemite Sam to come over for tag for some time, and this past Friday he finally accepted. I said it was OK, but only on one condition. No guns. I didn't want him to get all ginned up during tag and shoot the hell out of my house. He came, sans guns, played tag, and joined in with post-tag pizza.

He had such a great time he stayed overnight, then went back home with Mr M after Mr M visited on Saturday. He ate six of Huckleberry Hound's fried eggs for breakfast. Mr M brought him his guns when he came, but with no bullets. He showed the gang a few pistol tricks.

He's a little rough around the edges, but you know, I kind of like the guy. What can I say.

Then it was around 7 on Saturday, and I was putting the finishing touches on dinner, when I heard a ring at the doorbell. I headed to the door to see who could possibly be visiting, and there behind my screen door, I saw this.





















Oh, my God! It was Bugs Bunny! The King of Cartoon Characters (and one of Sherman's heroes) was paying us a visit at the humble Pod!

Honestly, I thought I would faint, but I gathered myself, opened the door, and tried to think of a greeting to my home worthy of Mr B Bunny himself.

Then.

Then, this flew into my house.

























It was Daffy Duck. Daffy Duck in a convenient Bugs Bunny disguise, complete with fuzzy tail. Seems he'd heard about our little commune here, and thought we'd "benefit" from a visit by him.

That was Saturday. He's still here.

Since he's been here, he's tried to pass himself off as Bugs to Baby Lily and charge her $5 for his autograph. He's also bilked Bunsen Honeydew of $20 playing Three Card Monte. He calls Milo a "cur," Mr Peanut a "has-been," and has made a pass or two at Inga, the kids' nanny.

I'm at a bit of a crossroads. I want him out. I asked Mr Peabody to have a word with him, but it hasn't happened yet. Mr Peabody is still writing a "You Need to Go" speech. They're such different personalities, Peabody doesn't want to just wing it.

But if it doesn't happen soon, I'm going to grab him by the beak and fling him out the door.

Or let Milo eat him.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Speaking of Milo, gave the boy a bath tonight. Not a cakewalk, to be sure, but he's not a bad boy in the bath. Then tomorrow night is Haircut Night! Woooo - lots of good thoughts for The Nephew and me, please.

Strange Times in Betland

Oh, my friends. A bit of a crisis here at the old Poderosa.

It all started yesterday. With our buddy Huckleberry Hound. You all know Huckie.

























Well, of course, yesterday was Mother's Day. It was also the day of Mr M's clarinet "salon music" recital in B'burg at 7pm. I was going to be there, as was Sherman, and Huckleberry wanted to attend as well.

But Huckie was also missing his mom. Maw Hound.

He wanted so much to have a visit with Maw Hound on that most special of days, Mother's Day. And of course the Huckiemobile only has a top speed of 25mph, and there was no way he could get there, give her a big blue-dog kiss on the cheek, and get back for Mr M's recital.

And Mr Peabody generously stepped in with a suggestion.

Peabody showed Huckie how he could use the WABAC machine to travel through the miles without traveling back in time. He could push a series of buttons, pop down to Alabama, see Maw Hound, travel back, and end up back here in time for the ride to B'burg.

Huckleberry was grateful and took Peabody up on his offer. He strolled into the WABAC about 11am.

However, as happens when blue dogs get together and get to talking over old family times, he left it a bit late coming home. When he saw the time, Huckie started to worry about being late and missing his ride to B'burg. Since the Huckiemobile only has that top speed of 25mph, he had to be ready when I pulled out of the driveway.

And so he frantically started pushing some extra buttons on the WABAC to gain speed.

Bad idea.

When Huckie arrived at the Poderosa Sunday afternoon, he was, well, changed.

























He apparently threw himself many years into the past. He's just a pup, a baby Huckleberry.

I was freaked out about the whole thing, but the other characters here at the Pod seem to have taken it in stride. Bunsen Honeydew rocked him to sleep last night. Good Luck Baby Lily has had a ball playing with him all day today. He's been fed by Quick Draw McGraw, put down for his naps by Sherman, and changed by - well, by me. No one else seems to want to deal with diaper duty, so that one fell to the Pod Owner.

Turns out those extra buttons Huckie pushed in his panic caused some sort of jam in the WABAC. Mr Peabody has been reading frantically and spending time in the machine with his tool kit. He finally found the problem, but the solution involves him making a new coil for the Age Combustion System. It could take another day for him to build one.

In the meantime, "Rock-a-bye Huckie, in the tree top....."

Oh, the fun we have at the Poderosa.

Anyone interested in an acro this week? If you are, tell me, I might work one up.

Rock-a-Bye, Baby

Sometimes I write blogs I don't really want to write. And this generally happens because I let out some bit of information about me I'd just as soon you not know. I do it anyway, because I guess a blog is just as much for embarrassing admissions as reports of good news and pictures of the Hackensaw Boys.

Tonight's story comes from three places. Yes, three roads that converge right in the middle of Hinky Boulevard.

And I knew about this, knew it for a while, but only last night, when I was tired and exasperated and in a discussion with Mr M, did I just come out and admit it for the first time.

But let's get back to the roads.

The first road is Insomnia Street. I've told you all about this many times, how I hit a certain age a few years ago and sleep ceased to be a normal part of my life. I either go to bed and lie awake, eyes as wide open as that time Sylvester ate Tweety Bird, or I fall off to sleep for about an hour, wake back up, then proceed to toss and turn the rest of the night.

The second road is Anxiety Avenue. See, for a great deal of my youth, I suffered from anxiety attacks. And when I say anxiety attacks, I mean the kind that landed me in the emergency room on a regular basis. I didn't really know what they were at first, then I realized it, but it didn't stop them. They continued for a long time. Then, one day, and I swear, I don't even know how it happened, I learned to control them. I saw them coming, greeted them with a lot of conversation, and they turned around and went back to whence they came. Then they got a little pissed off at me and decided they just wouldn't come around at all. The sad thing is that recently they've missed me, and last year decided to pay me a surprise visit. And I seem to have forgotten now what I said to them to piss them off.

And the third road is This Part Isn't So Easy Lane. People who know me know this, I've told them, but I'm not sure I've ever mentioned it here. See, when I get particularly depressed, which has happened on and off in my years of living, I avoid getting in bed. I have always done this, from teen years on. I might sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, or sleep on the couch, or after buying the Poderosa, sleep in the Comfy Chair. Or I might just stay up all night. It's just something I've always done, I know it's weird, but sometimes I'm weird and that's the way it is.

When I landed in the emergency room last year after my anxiety attacks first decided to start visiting again, and I got $3000 worth of uninsured care, a pat on the head, an announcement that my liver was fabulous, and some advice to get professional help, I figured the cause of it all was my mom's being so sick all year. The worry, the travel, the frustration. Only Mom's better now, well, to a point, and the little anxiety shits are still hanging around. In fact, I think my biggest point of anxiety at the moment is that I can't recapture that tenacity that sent them away the first time.

I had another one Monday morning. I woke up around 5:45 sweating, heart beating out of my chest, hands numb, dizzy. "Oh, shit," I said, "Here it comes. Nothing's wrong. It's just anxiety. I'm fine. Really. I'm not kidding! I'm fucking fine!" But I laid there like a beached whale till it was time to get up, and it didn't really start to subside till I'd been at work for a couple of hours.

And so last night it was getting quite late and I was still up, and that's when the conversation with Mr M took place. He told me it was very late and I should be in bed, and I told him, as I tell him many times, how much I despise going to bed. He always finds this incredulous, how such a normal part of life could rile me so.

And so I started explaining how it wasn't normal for me at all, how going to bed when sleep was not one's friend was rather abnormal, and that's when the admission came out.

Now, I know I'm a mature woman, old enough and bright enough to drive a car, write checks, buy liquor and everything, but here it is. My admission? I'm actually afraid to go to bed.

I used to joke about it. I'm a night person. I just don't want to miss anything. Blah de blah. And blah.

I'm afraid to go to bed.

Well, if you thought Mr M was incredulous before, and you should, I just told you above, you should have been around for that little nugget of confession.

But Mr M knows all my ugliest secrets, so I just let it out. It's embarrassing, to be sure. And the thing is, I wish I could understand it. Because really, it's happening to me, and I don't think I understand it any more than Mr M did.

And here's the thing. When I go visit Mr M at Poderosa East, seems like all I do is sleep. Like this weekend. I fell asleep in the chair and had to be woken up for dinner. I nodded twice during the movie we watched - and really, who could sleep during a second viewing of "Robinson Crusoe on Mars?" - and had to be prodded by Mr M. Then I slept all night, got up early, took Milo outside, got on the couch, and slept some more.

When Mr M comes to my house, we'll play clarinets a while, then watch TV a while, where I always fall fast asleep. To be honest, so does Mr M, but then again, he's a guest in someone's home who's fast asleep, so what else is there to do?

And so, that's it. Hinky Boulevard.

Am I afraid of sleeping alone? No, I don't think so. I certainly like living alone, couldn't imagine it any other way. When I'm out on the road, in a hotel, I climb right in that bed and snooze away.

Does it have to do with thinking about the next day? Going to work, being stressed out? I don't know. If I'm home alone on a weekend, I stay up almost all night, but when I go to bed I'm certainly not all worked up about it. If it does have to do with work, I'm never thinking about it when hedging going to bed, other than, "Shit, I have to go to work tomorrow, and I don't want to go to bed."

I'm at a loss here.

Anyway, I did a little looking around today, and found out that I'm apparently not alone, because there seems to be something called clinophobia, which is, oh, my friends this is true, "the fear of going to bed." Explanations on this were fearing nightmares, bedwetting, or dying in one's sleep.

And I have to say, the thought of dying in someone else's company sure beats the hell out of dying alone, surrounded by clutter and in a t-shirt that usually has a stain on it.

In fact, the only thing worse, I guess, would be dying alone surrounded by clutter in a dirty t-shirt after wetting the bed. If that little disorder finds its way into my life, I won't be able to sleep at Mr M's either, and I'll traverse Hinky Boulevard and turn left onto the Flat Ass Crazy Highway.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what is the worst thing your doggie could investigate on a walk?
- Runner-Up is the DeepFatFriar, with his "Sexy elastic garters and triple E's." Milo likes my socks and underwear, so that's a distinct possibility, should someone throw something of that ilk out the window.
- And this week's winner is Marla (marlamarla), with her "Smelly Easter Geese And Their Eggs." Yes, that would definitely creep me out.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

Today I Am A Man

Hello. I dropped $200 really quickly today. Sometimes I like dropping money quickly, sometimes I don't. Today was, well, so-so.

I took some time off work to get my car serviced and take care of a recall letter I got. Got twice, actually. It wasn't a bad experience, well, save for two things.

I think the dealership saw me coming.

Now, the people at my dealership are so nice. They're friendly, efficient, tell me what I need and what I don't, and I like that in a business. However, every time I go into their waiting area to, uh, wait, I sit down with a Games Magazine, and then I look up at the television hanging from the ceiling and it's tuned to Fox News. So I grab the remote and change it to MSNBC. I watch a little, I work a few puzzles, I get my car back, and I head home.

However, today when I entered the waiting area, sat down, got out my magazine, and looked up at the television hanging from the ceiling tuned to Fox News, and I reached for the remote, it was gone! They hid the remote from me! I actually got up and walked all around the waiting area, looking under newspapers and magazines, and it was nowhere to be found. Those bastards made me watch Fox News! The only way I made it through was due to a "breaking news" story where a carnival ride in Miami got stuck, leaving two people hanging in midair. I got to see them rescued.

The second thing was that the recall involved some sort of gauge on my fuel tank, and they told me right up front my car would smell like gas for a few days. And boy, were they right. My eyes watered all the way home.

On that very way home I stopped at the way-more-fun-than-it-should-be Tractor Supply Company and bought Milo a few things.

Speaking of Milo, it was a lovely day today. A little cold, but sunny, breezy, dry, and so after work I came right home and took Milo out for a walk.

By the way, in case any of my readers aren't Facebook People, I need to post a picture of my little doggie in the blog. See, a couple of weeks ago (three, I think) he got the worst haircut in the history of doggie haircuts. His whole body was shaved to the skin, and his head and tail were left completely full. It was an abomination. I later cut some on his head and tail to try and even him out, and it helped a bit, I mean, nothing could have been worse than what he had, but it was still just horrible. He's finally starting to grow out a little bit, and now I have to decide if I want to learn to cut dog hair myself or find a new dog barber.

Anyway, the night of the horrible haircut, I figured the only solution was to just cover it up. And since Milo has his own Doggie Snuggie, I decided that was the perfect way to hide his imperfections.

























I love this picture. It's the closest Milo has ever come to posing for a photo. He looks like a canine cult member.

So anyway, today was lovely, and Milo and I took a walk. I strapped him into his Easy Walk harness so he wouldn't pull too badly, and away we went.

And it was such a nice walk. On the way down the sidewalk I let him explore, sniff, stop, bark, and cavort. On the way back, I kept it more businesslike so I could get some walking time in.

But here's the thing. On the way down, while Milo was exploring and sniffing - and investigating every light pole along the route - he found one light pole he was particularly interested in. And he sniffed, and tried to pee on it. And....

Wait for it....

He lifted his leg and peed right on the pole.

Now I understand how parents feel when their kids take their first steps, or speak their first words.

And I didn't even particularly want him to start lifting his leg!

Now, I'm perfectly willing to admit that this was a move of necessity. Milo wanted to pee on the pole, but he couldn't get close enough to it by squatting. He kept moving in, moving in, then finally I think he realized the only way he was going to get to pee on that pole was to lift a leg.

So for all my men friends who were so worried about this, there you go. I told Mr M, and he was overjoyed.

Tonight our pee consisted of a squat in the front yard, but then again, there was no pole around. However, I have a light pole in my back yard, and Milo loves that pole, so we'll see what happens.

I'm waiting for Milo's voice to change now. He already has a beard.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, speaking of The Boy, why does Milo howl when he hears a clarinet?
- Honorable Mention goes to Marla (marlamarlamarla), with her "Growling Only Tells Short Tales."
- Runner-Up goes to LilyG, with her "Greatly overestimated talent, seriously terrible." Don't apologize, Lily - I have no problem admitting it myself!
- And this week's winner goes to Funafuti, with his "Gets overly truculent sans trombone." Great. Leave it to Milo to be a low brass guy.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well! And thanks for hanging in after all my absences!

A Short Hand, A Short Blog

Oh, my! Up until an hour or so ago, I had no acro entries, so I thought I was going to be free of a blog tonight.

You wicked acroers.

It's OK. My present came today! From me to me.

Yes, I bought myself a birthday present. I'd been toying with the idea for a while, and the day before my birthday I made my final decision and ordered it.

I bought myself a ring.

I wanted to buy myself something, yes, as silly as it sounds, from me to me, to commemorate my 50th birthday. I wanted a ring. Nice, more than I'd normally spend, but not outrageously expensive. No jewels, I'm not a jewel-type person. Just something that would mean something to me.

I went looking at jewelers' sites and found this one from David Yurman. Some of his stuff I like, some I don't. But this ring just said, "Hello! I'm the one!" I placed the order, then placed it on my finger.



















Here's why I loved it. It's me. It's mainly silver, which is the color of jewelry I wear. However, it has a bit of gold, gold, the 50th anniversary metal, letting me wear other gold jewerly if I wanted. It's not flashy or fancy, and neither am I. It has bands that are all twisted together. I'm rather twisted together. Some bands are smooth. Occasionally, I'm smooth. Other bands are rough. Sometimes I'm rough.

So it's me. It fits perfectly and I love it.

And it was really hard to get a picture that doesn't show all of my horrible, dry, wrinkled, dishpan hands, but I finally got one. After the ring purchase, maybe I need to invest in a manicure.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Yes, acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what do I need to clean?
- Runner-Up goes to LilyG, with her "Really, Elizabeth. Clean? Go rowboating." I'm telling you, Lily, that's exactly how I feel.
- And this week's winner goes to Kellie (with an ie), with her "Really Eclectic Country Gold Records." I could never get rid of those! They might be worth something someday!
- Thanks to all who played - you've all done very well!

Everyone Knows It's Wendy

Ever see two locomotives heading toward each other with great speed, and you just know they're going to spectacularly ram into each other with a crash bam pow? That's kind of how tonight's story goes.

Coming from one direction, we have a dog. I have a dog. His name is Milo. Most of you know him. He's adorable, isn't he?

There's this word, though, this word that's been the basis of a running argument Mr M and I have had going for about four months. It pertains to Milo. The word is "sissy."

Mr M calls Milo a sissy. He mainly does this because Milo is, by my estimation, I mean, I wasn't there when he was born, 8 or 9 months old now, and he still doesn't lift his leg to pee. To this I say, I'm not at all embarrassed about it, and neither is Milo. He goes outside and squats like a little girl dog right there in front of God and everybody. It only seems to embarrass Mr M. I've read that dogs who are neutered 6 months and younger may never learn to lift their legs, and that's fine by me.

Apparently Milo is also a sissy because he's a mama's boy. He sits with me, he sits on me, he follows every step I make throughout the house. He doesn't want me to go outside without him. And to this I say, nuts. Not nuts as in it's not true, but nuts as in I'm his person. I'm the person who rescued him from the pound, brought him home, who feeds him and loves him and gives him treats. I ride him around in the car and sing the Milo Song to him. Of course he's a mama's boy, a mama's all he's got!

And of course, Milo will not stand up to Mr M's Alice the cat. He lets Alice walk all over him. He lays down and wags his tail and she curls up in a ball and makes noises not unlike Linda Blair in "The Exorcist," and then she pounces and he walks around wondering why she doesn't see how wonderful he is. And to this I say that although I wish Milo would, just once, bite Alice the cat's entire face off, I know he's such a good-natured dog he'd never do that. He loves everyone. He doesn't growl, snurl up his nose, or even give anyone the cold shoulder.

And so Mr M says Milo is a sissy and I say he's the perfect example of the red-blooded American mutt.

OK. Now in the other direction we have heading, well, a really long story.

Does anyone here remember Walter? Walter appeared in my life a little over three years ago. If you want the whole gruesome story you can read it here (11/10/06), but for reference, Walter was the mouse who showed up in my house, scared the peewater out of me, and sent me into one of those homeownership stories that are just me all over, the day I captured Walter in a no-kill mousetrap and had to drive him somewhere to set him free. A bit of a trying time, that was.

This morning I was getting ready for work. I had to be at work a little early, which for me means on time, and I was right on schedule and feeling quite chipper about it. All that was left for me to do was slap enough makeup on my face to be presentable, and it was off to the grind.

My makeup table is in my spare bedroom, AKA The Beast, the room where I keep everything I don't have any other place for. And now, I'll be perfectly honest here. It gets really messy from time to time, and since right before Christmas it's been a caution. There's barely a place to walk.

And Milo loves this. He loves going into The Beast with me to mill around and sniff, nose at boxes and plastic bags, and see what's there to discover.

And sometimes he'll get out of my eyeline and I'll call to him to come back to me, and he will, and we'll play with a toy or something while I'm making my face presentable, but when he ambled off this morning and I called to him, he didn't come. Instead, he started to whine. Not excitedly, either. Kind of like crying.

I turned to look at him and see if he was stuck or if his leash was wrapped around something and he couldn't move. And when I did, I noticed that as he was crying, he was looking up at the window. And there was an item of some sort between the closed blinds and the window that was making him cry.

Now, I could fib here and make things more interesting, but I won't. Because I have to admit that a mouse was the first thing that came to mind when I saw that little spot at the window. In a way. I kept looking, Milo kept crying, nose right up to the blinds, and after a minute I thought, "I wonder if a mouse has climbed onto my window ledge and died."

And still, I was hoping. I was hoping, oh, I don't know, that a missing glove had materialized there, or my window got a black spot on it suddenly. Anything. I went ahead and finished up the face thing, then warily approached the window. I gingerly lifted one slat of the blinds and saw fur. It was pretty much a foregone conclusion.

A box. I needed a box. It shouldn't be too horrible, find a box, nudge the corpse into it, and find a disposal place. I looked around and found a shoe box. I gingerly lifted another slat the in the blinds.

And that mouse started running!

Of course, I did what I do at these times. I jumped up and down and screamed. The mouse ran the length of the window ledge and hopped onto the top of my vacuum cleaner and sat. I realized that my shoe box had a hole on each side for easy carrying, so I figured that wasn't really what I needed now that my mouse wasn't a corpse anymore, so I started looking for something else. I was stuck. All that crap in The Beast, and not one thing approaching an airtight container. I turned back around to look at my new boarder, and - it was gone.

So I still have a mouse in the The Beast, or who knows where, actually.

But here's the thing.

While all this was going on, the lifting of blinds, the running of the mouse, the frantic searching for a box, the jumping and screaming, Milo - brave, valiant Milo - was standing behind me, head sticking around behind my leg, whining.

Crash bam pow indeed.

So maybe I do have a sissy dog, and now I also have a mouse. I've named her Wendy. I've decided she's Walter's younger sister and she came looking for him, not realizing he'd been released to greener pastures (beside an abandoned grocery store) three years ago. I've left her a note telling her where I took him, but I have a strange feeling I'm going to be taking her there myself. Soon.

I do still have one of those no-kill mousetraps left, and I guess I'll have to set it up again tonight. I really don't want to deal with it. In fact, the only thing I want to deal with less is having Wendy in my house.

Or having a sissy dog.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, the Olympics are winding down, but we still have one more set of medals to give out for acroing. So, tell us why Mr M's car is still in the garage.
- Bronze Medal goes to Michelle (the dishy), with her "Really kaputt? Figures. Ugly guzzler."
- Silver Medal goes to LilyG, with her "Radiator kept fucking up gasoline." (Although her Ralph Kramden one was one word away from the one I personally thought up.)
- And the Gold Medal, endorsement deal with Betland, and face on a box of Wheaties goes to Kellie (with an ie), with her "Rabbit Klepto Filtched Upper Grate."
- Thanks to al who played, you've all done very well!
- Let's all stand and enjoy the anthem from Kellieland.

And Off We Go Again!

Hello, blogees. I'm sitting here trying to decide whether or not to do an acro.

First of all, Granny's back in the hospital. Good and bad. Good, it's not for the same things that confined her some 11 times last year. Bad, she's got a bad case of chest congestion that's making it very difficult for her to breathe. She was taken to the hospital in the wee hours of this morning, and they admitted her. I went to see her today, and she's getting oxygen, but not the kind I'm used to seeing, the little tube going up the nose. She's got the whole big strap-on-your-face kind. And she talks and talks, and no one can understand her through that big mask, so there's a lot of "Huh? What?" in CCU, where she's resting.

She's not running a fever, blood pressure and pulse is good, so hopefully, this won't be as scary as it began. Keep good thoughts.

So I'm trying to decide about acro. I had all intentions of doing one this week, had a topic, then I realized something. I won't be here tomorrow night, won't be here Wednesday night. Probably be back late on Thursday night. (I'm going to be so tired of driving this week.)

So let's save that topic, and I give you my solemn promise we will acro like mad next week.

Other than that, the snow is melted, the temperature made it 50 here today, I'm supposed to get my winter coat back Wednesday (life is full of irony), and I'm still addicted to Wii tennis.

I've been practicing the clarinet nightly in anticipation of the solo (duet solo, that is two solo clarinetists with the band) that is supposed to happen with the Community Band on the spring concert. I'm still a little dubious, but hey, gotta be ready if it happens.

Milo is fine, and sends you all an enthusiastic "Brrrf!"

And that's about it for news. I'll try and check in Thursday.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Once again, the actualy Olympics are coming up next month. It always makes me smile when the Olympics come around. I don't get that excited by the games anymore, but I keep thinking about how I began the Olympic Update in, what, 2004? 2006? And it's never gone away.

Jib Jab Fun

Boy, the things we get up to at the Poderosa....

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I'm So Proud

Just a short post tonight, but I have to tell you the big news. In about a month, my Milo will be going off to school.

Yes, my puppy has been accepted at the ultra-prestigious and nearly Ivy League Hi-D-Ho Dog School in B'burg. We're all very excited about it.

The next month will be filled with buying notebooks and pencils, and possibly some flashcard practice. And maybe learning the alphabet. You know, just to keep him at the head of the class.

No, actually, I found a recommendation link on the website for the place I'll be boarding him this weekend, and besides finding an adorable logo, I found this:

Does your dog bolt through open doors, pull on leash, act silly at the vet's office, or jump on people? Then this class might be for you and your dog. The lessons include teaching sit, down, stand, stay, come when called, greeting people (sit to greet), greeting other dogs and walking nicely on leash. This class is similar to puppy kindergarten but we expect more and add more distractions during the training.

Well, of course. Milo's way above puppy kindergarten.

I'm really excited to go. It'll be while Oktoberfest is in full swing, so hopefully my Autumn Nervous Breakdown won't occur at a class.

I'll try to film his valedictory address.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, just what was on your shopping list?
- Honorable Mentions go to LilyG, with her "Lettuce, radishes -- a totally healthy cart," and Marla (marlamarla), with her "Lettuce, Radishes And Tasty Healthy Crap."
- Runner-Up goes to Kellie (with an ie), with her "Luscious Red Apples. Twizzlers. Hot Cocoa."
- And this week's winner, who needs no prize because he's going to have a fabulous night apparently, is the DeepFatFriar, with his "Lasagna, rubbers, antacid, tea, hemorrhoid cream." (And for a bonus, I loved "Little red artichokes that hate children.")
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

A Cold Nose in Your Hand: Priceless

Hello, blogees.

I have a dog now, did you know that? And what I'm about to say, please don't think this was some big surprise that has me wringing my hands wondering what in the world I'm going to do. I mean, I've owned dogs before. But let's take a little stock of Milo the Money Pit.

I got Milo on July 17th. 65 bucks to get him out of stir. That was cheap, I thought so as I was writing out the check. For my 65 bucks I got his first set of shots and a free neutering (sorry, fella), which will take place on Sept. 17.

So, 65 bucks, cheap. However, the night before I got him I was all giddy and went out and did some shopping. Food, treats, a crate, a tie-out for outside, shampoo, a leash, toys, blankies - a grand total of about $165. It's OK, I was happy to spend it - I felt like a new mommy at the baby store.

And so Milo came home with me and I washed him with the new shampoo and brushed him with the new brush and we played with the new toys. And he slept and traveled that weekend in the new crate and when he was a good doggie he got the new treats. And we were happy.

However, on day 2 of our adventure, Milo developed a cough. A cough I worried about, especially as it got worse, and so the next Monday I made him an appointment with Dr Steve, just to make sure it wasn't kennel cough, and I thought he needed to meet his new vet, anyway.

And so we met Dr Steve and he got some flea stuff and some coughing stuff and a shot, he made lots of friends at the office, and I wrote a check for $108. It's funny, because that was the day when I mentioned being worried that little Milo wasn't eating much, and it was also the day I found a sample of a different food that was in the packet I got from the animal shelter. I tried it and he loved it, so I gave my just-purchased, unopened bag of Expensive Old Food to the local pet haven and went and bought him a bag of Not Expensive But Not Cheap New Food at $10.

The next week brought more toys, and a harness because he was a little unruly on the leash, and in fact a new leash because he kept chewing weak spots in the old one. $25. That was also the week he busted out of his crate, one night while I slept, but he was a very good boy in the kitchen until I could get him a new one for a cool 69 bucks.

When I adopted Milo, he was full of fuzzy, fly-away, matted fur. All over the back half of his body. We had to get rid of that, it was itchy and unsightly. One trip to Lou the Groomer, $35, but that did include a purple bow which stayed on his ear upwards of thirty minutes.

Then of course, we just had to go to PetSmart, because, well, it's PetSmart! You can take your dog right inside PetSmart! And off we went, right in the store, and one doggie car seat, a name tag, a massive headache, and $58 later we headed home, happy.

Before we knew it it was time for the next vet's appointment, where Dr Steve loved all over Milo and said he had personality galore, gave him his second set of shots, some heartworm medicine, Milo peed on everyone in the office and jumped on the head of a rottweiler approximately the size of a calf, I wrote a check for $82, and we headed home.

And we continued on our adventure, with new toys and playing and my cleaning up all the things Milo has chewed up, and going for walks with the new leash, the new leash which also had several newly-chewed weak spots in it. And with a new harness, because he grew out of the old one. ($18, give or take.)

And somewhere in there I started watching the Dog Whisperer, who's given me some very nice tips absolutely free of charge, which I just love, but I realized that a lot of the leash training we were going to have to start working on was not really harness training. It was collar training, and the only collar I had was the one from when he was in the pound, and somehow I thought that might make him think of his life before me and get all traumatized, so I bought him a new collar at $8 or so. But he's doing much better with the collar, so that was a steal.

Ahh, but owning a dog isn't all fun and games. There's that one area none of us wants to deal with, but it's inevitable. Poo. I of course bought a poo scooper early on for $20, one that worked fairly well, but I still had to wash the stray poo off it, and on about its fourth usage, it broke. So I bought a second, a different kind since the first one was obviously a, well, a piece of poo, another $20, but this one was horrible and didn't pick up - well, I'm sorry but I can't let the opportunity pass me by - it didn't pick up shit. And I had to wash a lot of poo off it, all the poo that smeared around when I tried to pick up the poo.

There has to be a better way, I kept telling myself, and so I went online to investigate and found that there was apparently a better way indeed. Because on PetSmart's website, which I guess they let your dog sit right there and look at, there was a little item called Dispoz-A-Scoop.

Now, I normally don't like products that spell badly, but in some circumstances, I'll forgive. This is maybe the only online product I've ever seen with a solid five star review, total raves, no averages brought down by the 1-star "I hated this product." (I'm convinced all those 1-star "I hated this product" reviews are written by the same guy.)

With the Dispoz-A-Scoop you have what looks like a small garbage bag. It has a thin wire square rim around the top of the bag, which is then attached to a heavy cardboard square. When doggie does, you slide the rim under the doo, which works because the wire is so thin, then you push down on the cardboard and it collapes the wire, sealing the business in the bag. It's very sanitary. It's also $11 for 24 bags. I hied myself the next weekend to PetSmart, this time without Milo, and left with two boxes of Scoops, some treats to fit the Kong toy Aunt Stennie bought him, no headache, and minus $28.

Now, I doubt it would surprise anyone to learn I'm a little hinky about poo, and since I had to dispose, or dispoz, of the poo somewhere, I came up with a nice clean system wherein I put the secured soiled Dispoz-A-Scoop into a zip-lock baggie and put it in a trash bag in my new ($15) outside trash can.

The trash can was a one time only expenditure, but Milo has a lot of poos left in him, and at $11 a pop and a dog's lifetime of zip-lock bags, I feel that one day I'll be living in the lot beside my house in a lean-to made of old Dispoz-A-Scoop and zip-lock baggie boxes.

This past weekend was a little traumatic for me. See, along with - hey, remember this? My little freak-out that landed me in the ER? - my paying out a shitload of money in medical bills, my Saturday shopping was to include a new DVD player and new monitor. They both died. Milo had nothing to do with either of those, but I'll also have to buy a new turntable where he chewed the cord of mine in two. Anyway, shopping, new DVD, new monitor, more food, more treats, and a yet a new leash where he's already chewed two previous ones. That was Saturday. The new leash's handle is almost chewed apart. I'm thinking the next one will be chain. Possibly electrified. ($20 for the dog - $236 in all.)

Now, I've been a tad worried about something ever since I got little Milo. And that's the trip I'll be making over the Labor Day weekend. It was planned long before he came along, and let's face it, sooner or later I'm going to have board the little guy. I think it'll do him some good, actually. He needs to be with different people and to commune with some dogs, because frankly, I think he's turning into a Mama's Boy.

But I've fretted over finding the right place, and realized that the clinic Mr M uses for Alice the Cat boards animals. I'd been meaning to call them for a few weeks, but if you'll remember my work weeks of late, there's not much time for anything like that. I finally got a chance to call them today. Yes, they could take Milo, they told me, provided he was up to date on his shots, including the bordetella vaccine. I knew he'd just had his shots, but I wasn't so sure about this one, so I called Dr Steve's office and they said no, that wasn't part of the "five way" most dogs get. How soon can I get one? Well, you can come today. And so I ran out of work, grabbed Milo, and hauled ass, mine and his, to T'well and the vet. $28 later I had the piece of paper I needed to get his reservation for the weekend.

So I called this afternoon after the papers were faxed and got his reservation. Price? I didn't even ask. After they read all the rules, though, and told me I had to drop him off early do a bunch of paperwork, I can't imagine a fiver will get him back out.

So, I'm broke. But I have Milo. Barking, burping, farting, running, jumping, chewing, cuddling, wanting outside every 10 minutes, fetching, eating, growing Milo. Sometimes I look at him in disbelief - I really never thought I'd have a dog again.

And I only think of the money stuff when I'm driving down the road to the vet's, or sitting here writing blogs, or paying bills. One look from him with those eyes, or a nuzzle to my ear in the comfy chair, or a toy placed at my feet, or a climb up the footstool into my lap at the computer, or a cold nose up against my hand, and it's all forgotten.

He's a good doggie.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what about bugs?
- Honorable Mentions go to Kellie with an ie, with her "Got your tush? Uncomfortable dancing," and the DeepFatFriar, with his "Gyrating. Yelling. Throwing up. Dead."
- Runner-Up goes to Marla (marlamarlamarla), with her "Gooey yellow ticks under dog-fur." (OK, it's a bit of a cheat. I still liked it.)
- And this week's winner is LilyG, with her "Greet you terribly - unfortunately, dentally."
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!